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Many things are puzzling in families-- mine included. One in ours: why didn't we travel to Los Angeles sooner once we moved to Oregon? A plan had been made by our NYC branch to meet in southern California over Xmas... beaches, marine museum and zoo would entertain the children. We flew to LA earlier for a visit with Ron's cousin Rosita.

Turned out to be the very best opening to the West. The short version of the complex story. Rosita's father, brother to Ron's mother Becky, left Europe too late in the 1920s to come to U.S. He ended up in Argentina, where he made a life as furrier. Rosita, the younger of his two children, in 1950 left Buenos Aires, she was 18, and came to Becky's house in Brighton Beach Brooklyn to figure out how she would make her way in America.

How would she and Ron, two years younger, communicate? She did not speak English; he did not know Spanish. Yiddish was the language they had in common, the household language of the Blooms, Ron's first. Through some push and pull the family managed to get Rosita into the local high school where she quickly became an English-speaker. [All the above links are to earlier blogposts, include lovely old photos of my late in-laws.] The two of them spent many hours walking the boardwalk, exchanging adolescent thoughts.

Lunch included champagne and a loaf of my latest very sour, sourdough rye carried on the flight. [Do you know they usher old people into short line, shoes kept on, no laptop exam? Nice.]

The kitchen, the entire house was alive with craft. Rosita's puppet collection like this cat over the stove.

Ron brought along some of his tapestries. Rosita hung hers immediately. And another for Tova. In the evening we met up with two more family members, Lee and Cathy, son and daughter in law, for dinner in an Indian restaurant. Back the next day, more talk, admire Rosita's cactuscollection...

Reluctantly leave with our farewell oranges--amazing--from her tree. Oh, I want to go back. Had forgotten why I had this photo of orange pieces in my photo file. Of course! My was a wish to hold onto being with Rosita and her family as I ate the last orange.

Today solstice greetings arrived from the team for SEED: the Untold Story, a film in production in Portland, Oregon. With little outlay, I became one of the 1,359 backers of this new documentary.

Taggart Siegel and Jon Betz produced an earlier favorite of mine, Queen of the Sun. Roger Ebert in called it "a remarkable documentary that's also one of the most beautiful nature films I've seen. In exquisite photography by Siegel, we go inside hives and follow bees as they sip on flowers. We also meet beekeepers in sylvan settings (Illinois, Germany, New Zealand, and Italy) and even on rooftops in Manhattan. Yes, there's a movement supporting rooftop hives and gardens."

We left New York two years before beekeeping became legal in Manhattan in 2010. Some hardy souls were doing it earlier and selling it quite boldly. I think this story is about the honey we purchased at a flea market in the west eighties. Beekeeper David Graves now schools Bronx students on how-to.

Watch the too-short promotional video of SEED and its around the world vision...Join me in thinking about a better, a new-and-improved, a peace-filled 2014 that we all could share.

"...one entity acting as administrator, or payer...a single-payer system would be setup such that one entity—a government run organization—would collect all health care fees."

My own experience in New York with PNHP only confirmed my feelings that many of them could not make the leap of faith toward a radically changed system. Nor risk unhappiness in the health insurance world. The true belivers were mostly young doctors and residents. Those of us who worked for a sensible, egalitarian, workable approach are sad as we watch the unruliness of the ACA rollout.

Tonight on NPR's "Marketplace" program, Craig LeMoult had a informative history lesson about how successful the government had been in rolling out Social Security and Medicare--and why. The Obama administration could have done us and themselves a big favor by better preparation for the introduction of something very new. Could have had great vignettes on how citizens and bureaucrats dealt with those changes.

Oops...just heard that small businesses will not be able to buy health care until next year. That could change turkey-day conversation tomorrow. But with five kids in the mix, we'll probably stick to the weather-- sunny and not-too cold. Much conversation in Portland these days around marijuana--medical and otherwise and what to name the new bridge (only for light rail, bikes, people--no cars) that will cross the Willamette River.

The latter has resemblance to an episode of Portlandia since a City councilman suggested Lisa Simpson of TV fame. Along with others, my vote has gone to Abigail Scott Duniway, suffragette who worked tirelessly for Oregon women to get the vote in 1912. See The Abigail Bridge Facebook page, and video by Girl Scouts. Makes me hopeful along with thankful!

Hestia, the goddess of the hearth, could use more attention. First heard of her from feminist home economist, Patricia J. Thompson. Unlike others in her discipline, Pat was deeply intellectual about home ec. Here In "Close to Home: an homage to Hestia," she is most accessible.

We met her in the 1980s--she was teaching at Lehman College in New York. I got closer to home ec when Ron Bloom switched departments from Education to Home Economics at Morgan State University in Baltimore. Listened to her ideas. We talked about the women like Ellen Richards who pioneered the field, congruent time and energy of Jane Addams and social work.

You know that sense-- a concept attracts but seems just out of reach? That was how it was with Pat. Always thought I needed to be a little smarter, go deeper. The world needs more like her; wish we had not lost touch. She was quirky personally, surely a result of her complex and difficult background. She was obsessed with being the unacknowledged daughter of a famous Russian and Soviet poet from early 20th century. Finally she extracted recognition and a medal from the Russians in 2008...

Order of Lomonosov, by the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, Russian Federation, Moscow, July 8. First public recognition by the Russian Federation that Dr. Patricia J. Thompson is indeed the American daughter of the Russian poet, Vladimir Vladimirovitch Mayakovsky.

Added her Russian name, Yelena Vladimirovna Mayakovskya, to her vita.

Her out-of-print textbook, "Self, Space & Shelter," (blogged about HERE ) belongs in today's classroom. I used it for "The Idea of Home," class I developed for Ron's department. Published in 1977, too early for attention to co-housing which I included in 1989. My urban, African-American students found this idea of home not to their liking. Their dream was of suburbia.

Back to the goddesses needed in our 21st century lives. Today's post was stimulated by a cartoon on Facebook about Hygeia, Greek goddess of Wellness.

New to Facebook, there are discoveries to be made. One of the best is discovery of what Friends like. My New York City friend, Lisa Daehlin, opera singer and knitter par excellence, who created for my other blog the lacy, pink Bra & Breast Pouch Condom Amulet (the one that gets the most hits on that site), sent me back to the City.

Found at her link to Clowns ex Machina. Reminded me of outdoor lunches and dinners we shared at cafes along Broadway.

Many other pleasures from the Clowns. In another YouTube the famous ballerina, Natalia Makarova, also in costume, describes onstage disasters. Charming and funny. Impressive that a performer of her stature could laugh at herself with such delight.

You missed my birthday on Monday? Not to worry: I have an idea for a perfect 80th present--from you to the world (that includes me). Please share this video with friends, on your blog or your FB page. It's a video about HAPPY CUP COFFEE COMPANY, our daughter's growing new business. (Starts a couple of seconds into this clip.)

Along with the champagne we had cups of it on the rooftop where Ron and I live. A great cake by Gabi M. and much good cheer from our neighbors, all unkown to us till we moved to Terwilliger Plaza four years ago. Does it show that I am less than 24 hours away from major dental work?

Of course not, I was having too much fun, the weather in Portland was, as it continues, glorious...and I had a vacation from all my political worries.

The day began with a call from my oldest neighbor, Bert, who sang "Happy Birthday" and used all three of my names. A very sharp guy at 94. Sitting next to him is Rosemary who gave me a cup of her 100+ year old sourdough starter two years ago. Though I've turned out some good bread with it, I will not ever try to replicate her light and authentic English muffins.

Lucky Frances, a new neighbor, received a few of these when she moved in. I'm still looking forward to her story
of house-sitting on a houseboat of the Willamette River before coming here. She's talking with Bruce who moved to Terwilliger about a year ago from Baltimore with his partner Bob--both still running marathons. Quite a range among us! Bill C. is behind her. When we talk politics, I hear his perspective from the union work he once did in the midwest.

Bill and his wife Margaret, who sews quilts and clothes for her family, have have an amazing collection of late 19th century/early 20th sewing machines. Two details caught my attention when I visited. Foot pedals
unlike any I'd ever seen and the magical, handsome oak box that opens to reveal numerous attachments to make collars and other details that do not merit similar attention in today's manufactured apparel.

Carolyn, here holding a canvas Happy Cup bag (my surprise for her), put the party together. She and other women, Margaret and Barbara on the right, I've come to know have expanded my knowledge of both retirement living and the ways of the northwest. I thought we were simply moving to another apartment!

My son and his family sent me abirthday box from New York. Our tradition had been to leave one--or more-- outside our children's doors to be discovered when they woke on their birthdays. Mine had many other boxes inside. A NYC subway map apron, gorgeous pair of earrings made from Fimo clay that I wore to the party. We Skyped with Nick and Roxie the day before.

And Tuesday night, another party happens with Rachel's crew, back from visiting her husband's family in Michigan. Then Wednesday all the people here with August birthdays have a luncheon in our restaurant. In the weeks before my 80th birthday I was puzzled that I was edgy about it. Another year passing never made much difference after 21--though I delighted in turning 50. This one--eightly--had more meaning: definitely OLD this time: teeth problems, newly-discovered rising blood pressure. Celebration has taken me past it. I'm here...now...ready for the next five.

This morning, the state legislature is about to end and NOTHING has moved on gun control.

The tougher message of these two is the one on the right which came from the east coast. Grandmothers against the War felt safe when we took our anti-war message to weekly demonstrations at Rockefeller Center. Or was there more personal safety possible in public space back in 2007? [Mark Manley photos]

Would I feel safe there with this MOMS DEMAND ACTION poster with its very in-your-face message about being held hostage?

Yes, if our home were still in New York City. Where I could feel safe to stand in front of Rockefeller Center with a group holding the same anti-war message.

It was early May. Two days before leaving, I cracked my front tooth on a thick bar of chocolate. Got a tempo fix to last two weeks.

We began with the sight of an object that seemed far more California than Oregon coast. I called it the Radish Goddess on first sighting, was corrected by woman at front desk before we left. Noticed a cord hanging behind it, plugged it in, rewarded with moving lights. I was surprised there was not music too. If you've visited Newport Beach and spent the night in one of the Sylvia Beach Hotel's rooms named for writers, this Kitchen God would make sense.

Our overnight was in the "Amy Tan" with a window right on the windy Pacific. I'd eagerly read The Kitchen God's Wife after Tan's first novel, The Joy Luck Club. Most of us had know little of Chinese American lives. These novels revealed immigrant stories of Chinese-born mothers as seen by their American-born daughters.

As I grew up, mostly in New York City, this was the least visible ethnic group. Most of us only saw the Chinese as people who worked in the many neighborhood laundries and Chinese restaurants. Chinatown was the only other place. I have no memory of Chinese children in my elementary school.

Nor were they in my high school in suburban St. Louis, or college in northern Ohio. My father was interested in the Chinese, would often take me to eat in Chinatown, walk through the streets. He began to teach himself to do Chinese calligraphy brushwork. His ink pad was inside a beautiful square silver box with green incised letters on the top. He gave it to me--the only object of value he gave me--when I moved to New York after college. Still sorry that I lost it in one of my many moves from apartment to apartment.

But I digress. Ron has missed the ocean a great deal, happy to be near one again even though it was the Pacific rather than the other, so central to much of his life. The beach at Newport was beautiful both night and day.

Moving on, we stopped in the Farmers' Market at Port Orford, "oldest town on the Oregon coast...most westerly in the 48 states." As with others we've been in from here to New York City, each has its own charm.

Drawn to local honey, we spent some time at the stand for Lee's Bees. Man on the right is the husband of Lee, the beekeeper. Originally from upstate New York, he had a compelling story about his travels and jobs from there to settling in Sixes, Oregon, population about 330 and home of the hives. Lee had invented something unusual--bee cloth. an alternative to plastic wrap, it's cotton cloth impregnated with beeswax. For what, you ask. "You can wrap cheese in it, put it in the fridge." I have not done that yet; keep hoping to discover other applications.

"Suspended items" was explained to me by this young woman. Think it was a homemade bread that will not be offfered again till some time in the future. Escaped me then as it does now. One of the major differences between Farmers' Markets around Portland and this one was the absence of piercings and tatoos. Nice.

Published in The New Yorker, April 13, 2009; on my bulletin board since then.

On a spring day in Portland, Oregon, I celebrate meeting my spouse in Manhattan. March 1966, a large, airless room at a counseling conference in the Commodore Hotel. He was presenting; I was in the audience determined to get my question answered. He took me for an ice cream soda at a nearby Schrafft's on 42nd Street.. It was a lovely day; we walked twenty blocks south.

We lived four blocks apart--Ron in a classic 8-story 1930s building--one-bedroom, rent-controlled ($110) on East 24th. Mine was a smaller
studio ($160), in a new 21-story high-rise. We married in his apartment October 29, 1966--the same year NOW began. The word "femnism" was not in my vocabulary at the time. We disagreed on the war in Vietnam. We moved quickly toward working on equality between women and men--and being very opposed to the "American war," as it's known in Vietnam.

Two children, four grandchilddren, several moves--Oberlin, Ohio then Baltimore, Maryland, then back to New York City before landing in Portland.

The Commodore, built in 1919, was renovated inside and out in 1980. Unrecognizable to us in its current state. Schrafft's is gone. We are still New Yorkers in spirit, almost 50 years later, in Portland, Oregon.

Many false starts for this blog is about my horror with the gun culture in Portland, in Oregon. I attended a gun control rally last month. Horror?

Yes. I had never been in a public place and seen men with rifles.

Walking among us--women, children, old people. Neighbors of mine have gathered since the gun murders in our own city at Clackamas Town Center, followed by the elementary school in New Town, Connecticut. We were at a rally to support gun control. City Hall in downtown Portland.

An hour earlier friends and I had listened to a plea from Penny Okamoto of Ceasefire Oregon to mobilize ourselves to move along legislation under review in the state house. She is the hardworking, unpaid staff person. There is no paid staff for the group.

At the rally I'd met, talked with state senator Ginny Burdick, who represents this area. Another hardworking woman who has spent years trying to get more human-centered gun control legislation passed. Another hardworking woman.

I cannot get used to the idea often voiced that we should speak of "gun safety" because that is less infuriating to our opponents than "gun control."

Then the opposition, supported by the head of the state Republican Party went to Burdick's home and videotaped her daily life--like taking out trash. We were prepared to attend a meeting she called on upcoming legislation. She cancelled the meeting.

Next, Steve Duin, among the few readable columnists in the sad daily, had a Sunday piece with this headline "Intimidation tactics may silence Salem..." [Salem is the state capitol not the one with the witchhunt history in Massachusetts].

Now we learn that Mitch Greenlick, another member of the state legislature, has been subject to pro-gun ire that speaks to precisely who these people are, the racist anti-Obama men and women we've heard about nationally, the Tea Party enthusiasts:

"But even Greenlick has been surprised by the abusive, obscene and anti-Semitic tenor of the reaction to his support for gun-control legislation after the Sandy Hook Elementary massacre."

The next day there was an Op-ed column by Joe Nocera in the New York Times. "Politics by Intimidation" tells the Oregon gun story. Must come as a surprise to all those convinced that Portland, the City of Roses, was like the light-hearted view from "Portlandia," great restaurants, craft beer overflowing. But guns?

Living in Baltimore, in Harlem, I never felt as edgy about being on the streets as I do now. Day or night who knows if I may be sitting in a restaurant next to someone with a concealed weapon. And he has a disagreement with his wife?